Mr Lazarus
by Luna's little noodle
Summary: "I had grieved. I had wept for a night and day" – Mrs Lazarus, Carol Ann Duffy. Phil is dead. Clint is heartbroken, grieving, throwing himself into work and burning himself out. But with help, he begins to cope, come to terms with Phil's death, to heal and move on. Then Phil comes back, far, far too late.


i own nothing. inspired by Carol Ann Duffy's _Mrs Lazarus_

* * *

Clint doesn't weep at the funeral.

Small and tacit and an unmarked grave, because SHIELD agents didn't exist in the real world (what world, without him?). Too many black suits, black dresses, only a few spots of colour that Clint clings to. Phil would have liked the red and blue and green touches on the mourners; something to show they would not let themselves be consumed in their grief. He would have liked Clint's purple most of all.

The coffin is closed – in the wake, in the church, in the grave – oversaturated cards and white freesia and Phil trapped inside it. Fury in front of it, making a speech, syllables that won't penetrate the haze in his head: a dull buzzing, _Coulson is down_. Nat's hand on his shoulder, a splash of red out of the corner of his eye, and it's good, it grounds him here, in May sunshine.

He goes home. What home there is, still in his too-black suit and purple tie, that he had worn at the registry _then_. He rips it off, a scrap of fabric Phil had helped him find, had layered the neck beneath with kisses and promises he had always, always kept. Except one: the most important one.

Clint screams. He tears his tie to purple scraps, joined by his white dress shirt, by his black, black jacket and trousers until he stands, bare, tears streaming down his face, voice hoarse, eyes red. There's a pair of Phil's pyjamas in their closet. _His_ closet, now. He pulls them on, doesn't think about how they should only be pressing against one side of his legs, goes to sleep with salt stains on his cheeks.

In the morning Clint's standing in Central Park, on a bridge watching Thor take _him_ away, gagged and cuffed and not able to hurt anyone anymore. His eyes catch Loki's and there's a mirth hidden there that makes him barely able to wait until they leave, before he runs. Nat watches him go, as sad as she can make herself feel, but he doesn't care anymore.

Clint throws himself at that damned unmarked grave, hands in fists that break on unforgiving stone. He scrabbles at the dirt, getting it under his nails and stained on his shirt until he's spent, drained, the marker against his cheek leaching not only his body heat. Phil. _Phil_. (Dead, _dead_.)

Back to SHIELD. Back to their shared room, and suddenly he can't bear the sight, of Phil's ratty T-shirts and cinnamon mouthwash and crisp dark suits. He packs it all away, into black bags and cardboard boxes, shoes old enough the leather doesn't squeak when he shuffles silent steps in them to an equally-old box.

The room is gutted when he finishes, their entire lives together packed neatly away behind him, until the only thing left is a small photo tucked jauntily into his wallet (from that mission in Milan, when he had taken Phil's hands and dragged them to a photo booth, using up his only change on a strip of four that had Phil smiling fondly when he thought Clint couldn't see). _If only_ , he wants to scream, to cry, but what good would it do him? What good would it do Phil?

He throws himself into missions. He leaves behind a single cot that is still too large (too empty), leaves behind the whispers of _traitor_ , _murderer_ , (worst of all) _widow_. His ears feel empty without Phil's quick comebacks and snarky comments, a white noise of clinical handlers, detached; he brings one of Phil's ties on every mission, knotted around his neck too tightly until they land (then he tucks it at the bottom of his quiver, until the ride home). The leather of his glove wears down, used too much too often. His gift from Phil falls apart in the Venezuelan jungle, but he still fires arrow after arrow after arrow until his fingers are raw and bleeding. Clint barely gives it time to heal before shipping out to the Middle East.

He doesn't get another glove; he fights hand-to-hand, relishes the _smack_ of flesh beneath his fists, the grit of the sand caked on everything as he breaks an assailant's neck. There are too many attackers, but he loves it, loves that he can atone, loves that it brings him closer to seeing Phil again. The _crack_ of his leg is welcomed, white femur in the dust, blood cooking under the Afghan sun. Blackness takes his vision as he sees a splash of red against the cloudless sky.

Clint wakes in a medical facility he's never seen before. Dr Banner putters at the end of the ward, his pretence half-convincing Clint he's harmless. His waking is noticed, but Clint can only swallow a few chunks of ice before he's under again.

When he wakes fully, after three days of minutes stolen, Nat is at the foot of his bed, scowling at a clipboard. She notices him awake, and scowls further. _Not eating_. _Depressed_. _Suicidal_. The words batter against his brain, rattling the sides of his skull like a cup on iron bars.

He's released from the Medical Wing and brought to a floor he shares with an empty apartment. Stark talks more than he breathes, and Clint let's the noise wash over him, lets it fill the empty spaces in his brain. When he thanks him, Stark waves him away from the softening of his eyes.

Clint finds all his possessions already unpacked apart from boxes in the closet he doesn't dare touch. He strips, stands in front of the mirror, takes in the patchwork of bruises unable to disguise his haggard frame. The lines of his ribs are apparent even beneath his motley scars. Clint prods every bruise, traces every scar, takes in the gaunt face in mirror, the circles under its eyes. In his hands, the tie twists over his fingers, shackles of silk.

He's off the mission roster until further notice; he's off the Avengers' roster, too. He isn't sure how he feels not being part of Phil's dream. SHIELD sends a therapist to the Tower, and Clint only bears two minutes of her invasive questions, the veiled blame in her eyes when he mentions the Helicarrier, the curl of her lip when he states _my husband_ , before he leaves the room, ducking into the vents as she rushes into the hallway, shouting obscenities.

The next two therapists are only marginal improvements, but Clint still ducks out of the room before the sessions end to curl up in the vents, twisting the tie into a hangman's noose. He pretends he doesn't see the hidden worry in the others' eyes at dinner. They pretend they don't see the despair in his.

The fourth therapist SHIELD sends has steel-grey hair and no-nonsense attitude. Clint likes her immediately.

They don't talk about Phil at first. They don't even talk about the Helicarrier. Over the next few months they talk about older missions, the state of the economy, things so trivial that Clint doesn't realise how much has changed until he hums a tune Phil used to love while cooking dinner (and still is able to smack Steve away from the pot on the stove when he comes in early).

They properly start to talk about Phil (even though he's been at the edges of every conversation for weeks now), and Clint leaves every session feeling lighter, a chip shaved off the weight on his chest. He finds Phil is dwindling, his presence not so overt, any longer. The sun begins to bleach the photo in his wallet, and the team celebrates Clint's return to the roster with hot chocolate and the arrival of Thor's lady love Jane, and Jane's lackey Darcy (who makes Clint laugh within the first five minutes of meeting her).

He keeps meeting with Dr Leisen, but he also joins the team outside missions. Tony designs a new bow for him; Clint shoots the robot poised to kill him a week later. He and Darcy make a plan to prank every member of the Tower, and have to make a reluctant Bruce flip a coin when neither of them wants to get Nat; Clint end up doing it, and very carefully glues everything in her apartment to the surface it's on (when Nat stalks into the Common Room later, he shunts a laughing Darcy between them, grinning widely, and Nat's face minutely softens).

His heart stops stuttering when Phil is mentioned. When he and Darcy unpack the boxes in the back of his closet, Clint tells her the story behind each object, and she _listens_. The mementos of his life with Phil begin to fill the apartment: a mug Phil bought finds its way to the cupboard, his favourite novels grace the bookshelves, his suits are hung in the back of the closet, out of sight.

The team becomes closer, the tension once between them now nothing more than a distorted dream. Clint shows Darcy around the vents, and when they fall out of the Common Room ceiling, covered in dust and giggling, Tony only rolls his eyes and places the order for a new coffee table. He and Nat have High Tea in his apartment, and Clint nearly doesn't realise he hasn't thought of Phil in weeks until after, when he cracks open a book waiting for Darcy and a light brown hair falls from between the works of Christina Rossetti.

Another month passes before Clint is cleared by Dr Leisen. He and Darcy celebrate with ice cream and crappy movies, and when he pulls his pyjamas from the closet floor he realises the suits at the back no longer smell like Phil. He isn't as bothered by this as he thinks he should be.

The will is finally read, and wishes for his good health and a plea for his happiness revealed to the room send Clint back into the vents. The tie is forgotten in some other hidden corner, so he twists the chain with his wedding ring between his fingers, the small gold zero resting on the tips of his fingers. Darcy finds him up there, bringing with her S'mores Goldfish, and lets him cry again on her shoulder. When he puts the chain back on as they leave, the golden zero is not as cold against his skin.

His heart begins to beat again, Phil nothing but a legend told to new agents now. Darcy's arm in his, her softness a shock after a lifetime of coiled muscle. The raised eyebrows at SHIELD pierce him. _I waited_ , he says, _I grieved_. _I'm allowed to heal_.

Clint lets himself take Darcy on a date; she understands when they don't go for a sit-down dinner. They walk in Central Park with food from a street vendor three blocks away. He's half convinced it's better (not _better_ , different), as they gaze on the crescent moon above, children in costumes running past shrieking, and she illustrates a story with her hands.

Then there's a crackle on his hearing aids, and Darcy hears it too, the low whine of Tony's repulsor jets, the slap of Steve's feet on the sidewalk. Behind them other SHIELD agents whisper-shouting into their earpieces. The children have started shrieking again, running past, and Clint knows from the helpless glint to Tony's eyes, the shrill whine of the SHIELD agents in the background. Darcy clings to his hands as he's pushed forwards, the tang of the crowd swelling around them, and Clint knows before he sees Nat's fractured gaze, before he sees Thor holding Loki by the throat and demanding explanations.

Phil _lived_.

Clint sees the horror on his face, feels Fury and Hill explaining as a muted drone at the back of his brain. The sweet stench of death fills the air as a cool not-there scent tickles his nose. Phil's suit is rotted, the white freesia shrivelled and dry. The maw of his coffin clings to him, bloodstained cards scattered in the moist black earth, and Darcy clutches his hand as Phil croaks, _Barton_. He's a man disinherited, left behind, out of his time.

* * *

I had grieved. I had wept for a night and a day  
over my loss, ripped the cloth I was married in  
from my breasts, howled, shrieked, clawed  
at the burial stones until my hands bled, retched  
his name over and over again, dead, dead.

Gone home. Gutted the place. Slept in a single cot,  
widow, one empty glove, white femur  
in the dust, half. Stuffed dark suits  
into black bags, shuffled in a dead man's shoes,  
noosed the double knot of a tie around my bare neck,

gaunt nun in the mirror, touching herself. I learnt  
the Stations of Bereavement, the icon of my face  
in each bleak frame; but all those months  
he was going away from me, dwindling  
to the shrunk size of a snapshot, going,

going. Till his name was no longer a certain spell  
for his face. The last hair on his head  
floated out from a book. His scent went from the house.  
The will was read. See, he was vanishing  
to the small zero held by the gold of my ring.

Then he was gone. Then he was legend, language;  
my arm on the arm of the schoolteacher – the shock  
of a man's strength under the sleeve of his coat –  
along the hedgerows. But I was faithful  
for as long as it took. Until he was memory.

So I could stand that evening in the field  
in a shawl of fine air, healed, able  
to watch the edge of the moon occur to the sky  
and a hare thump from a hedge; then notice  
the village men running towards me, shouting,

behind them the women and children, barking dogs,  
and I knew. I knew by the sly light  
on the blacksmith's face, the shrill eyes  
of the barmaid, the sudden hands bearing me  
into the hot tang of the crowd parting before me.

He lived. I saw the horror on his face.  
I heard his mother's crazy song. I breathed  
his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,  
moist and dishevelled from the grave's slack chew,  
croaking his cuckold name, disinherited, out of his time.

– _Mrs Lazarus_ , Carol Ann Duffy


End file.
